


Holding on and letting go

by schweet_heart



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6214945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Holmes falls, Watson reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding on and letting go

**Author's Note:**

> I just re-watched Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, and remembered I had this in my drafts file somewhere. Because Reichenbach angst never gets old, I guess.

It cannot be said that time stops, because although Watson’s perception of it slows to an almost stand-still, the worst part about that moment is that time _keeps moving_ , with Holmes, poised, his arms wrapped inexorably around Moriarty’s chest, looking up just as Watson steps onto the threshold of the balcony, just in time for their eyes to meet. Watson finds that he cannot move. His first emotion is surprise, as if he has caught two unexpected lovers locked in an embrace; the second is despair. He knows what’s coming. The certainty, the inevitability of it floods him like ice and he is filled with a coldness the likes of which he has known only once – when Holmes stopped breathing in the train carriage on the way here, and he thought he would have to carry on alone. 

There are a thousand things he wants to do in that moment. He wants to run to Holmes and stop him from doing what he is about to do – help him to restrain Moriarty until the police can be summoned and the villain carted away, so that they may all live happily ever after. He wants to explain everything, about how all the complaints were really fondly meant and all the times he tried to keep Holmes in line were because he couldn’t stand to see him hurt, and how, right now, the knowledge of what is about to happen has him in its teeth like a pack of dogs tearing at a rabbit. He wants to tell Holmes how sorry he is for all the times that he failed to be bright enough, to be quick enough, to care enough, for being too late. 

But he suspects Holmes already knows.

Watson breathes in; out. Holmes’ expression is a mirror of what is in his own heart, a terrible rending of heart and flesh, an apology – then it is gone, his eyes closed, trapping Watson’s image behind them forever, and then Holmes, too, is gone, taking Moriarty with him over the brink. Watson is left alone, still unmoving. His eyes never move from the place where his best friend disappeared. 

It is hope, wild and insupportable, that drives him at last to move from that fixed spot. He staggers to the edge of the balcony, half expecting to see Holmes’ familiar figure dangling from the ledge above the precipice, Moriarty extinguished, the threat gone, waiting for his Boswell to lift him to safety. _It must be hell hanging on with that shoulder wound_ , Watson almost thinks. But the ledge is empty, as he had known in his heart of hearts it would be, and he stands there, leaning over into the dark, feeling the spray touch his face and his heart plummet down, down, into the rushing torrent with his friend.

Apart from the sound of the water, it is silent. The flood that fills his ears is only partly founded in reality; the rest is the beating of his heart, which he is sure must soon cease. Just as soon as Holmes reaches the bottom of the falls.


End file.
